I would like to feed your fingertips to the wolverines.

Posts from the ‘Mawwiage’ Category

1. My wife is on the verge of drooling most of the day. Sometimes she’ll laugh and then quickly close her mouth – a humiliation-preventing move to keep saliva from dribbling down her chin and onto her feet.

2. My wife takes my phone when I’m out of the room and sends my brother text messages — in my name — that say stuff like, “Some days I just wish I were a pretty little girl.”

3. My wife constantly picks at her fingernails, making a sound that grates on my nerves so badly that I might someday put her fingers in a paper shredder.

4. My wife would probably sell our child for a side of sour cream.

5. My wife sautés kale for breakfast every morning. Sautéed kale smells awful. The worst part? After she “cleans” the skillet, there are still little bits of kale chillin’ there, like floaties in the toilet.

6. My wife is one of those deranged humans who thinks a cast iron skillet should never be washed because “it retains all the flavors from previous meals.” So there’s essentially a garbage can sitting on our stove, and we cook with it.

7. My wife introduced my friends to a game called Sneaky Snake, wherein you surprise someone by poking them in the butt with your finger. She was the only one who ever played the game.

8. My wife recently bought a new, expensive curling iron because she thought the old one damaged her hair so badly that it was falling out by the handful. Truth is I cut off a chunk while she was napping.

9. My wife once ripped off the petals of a bunch of carnations, wadded them into a ball and threw them at a stranger’s crotch as he walked toward us. She laughed hysterically, and he just kept walking because what else do you do when someone throws flower petals at your crotch?

10. My wife recently spilled coffee in the car, and when I asked her if the brown, very visible stains on the door were from coffee she spilled, she said, “Oh yeah, I wondered where the rest of it went…”

11. My wife loads the dishwasher with the organizational skills of a blind gorilla.

Mug

12. My wife uses a “mineral salt deodorant” and buys only one stick per year. The instructions say to get the stick wet and rub it in — meaning she just rubs water on her armpits every morning and calls it good.

13. My wife wakes up early to do a workout and go on a jog while I sleep an extra hour.

14. My wife believes me when I tell her that she doesn’t snore as loudly as the dog.

15. My wife once wanted the words “Practice patience” tattooed on her wrist. Other general life reminders she considered: “Take out the trash” and “Wipe after you go pee.”

16. My wife once said the words, “I love being someone’s mom more than anything.” And then she grabbed her glass of wine, turned on “Vampire Diaries” and handed me the baby monitor.

17. My wife read all 591,434 words in the Twilight book series.

18. My wife doesn’t have a favorite alcoholic beverage. Her only preference is that she can open the bottle and drink whatever’s inside.

19. My wife’s Instagram is filled with pictures of our son, and her bio reads, “A boy’s best friend is his mother.” That’s a line from the movie “Psycho” about a guy who lives with his mom’s rotting corpse. So that’s super creepy.

20. My wife became my wife 10 years ago today. She’s the best, and it ain’t even close.

Three things about me are undeniable: I’m not very smart, I have virtually no skills and my life is devoid of any major accomplishments. That’s all etched in stone.

Somehow, though, I’m not a complete failure and I’ve managed to become a happy person along the way. I don’t know how this happened. The only goals I ever set were to win the school spelling bee in sixth and seventh grades. (Check and check.)

So it’s either dumb luck or life is actually pretty easy. I say life is easy.

I began to realize this when I was 15, the age at which all boys are rotten and should be beaten with a sack full of staplers. One night I was causing unnecessary tension at home when my brother, Jake, told me in a very sincere and kind way that people wouldn’t like me if I remained an annoying assface.

Lesson learned: Don’t be an annoying assface who no one likes. Simple, right?

Honestly, it was perhaps the best advice anyone’s ever given me. Without it, I’d probably be homeless and living inside a recycling bin in Guatemala.

Shouldn’t life be this simple for everyone? I assure you I’m not doing anything special. Why are so many people made miserable by their friendships, relationships, marriages and family members?

I’ve had the same group of best friends for 17 years, and we all get along as well as we ever have. Everyone enjoys everyone. Do you know how much of a collective effort that takes? Absolutely none whatsoever.

The truest sign of a good friendship.

A friendship is one of life’s purest sources of happiness, but many people screw that up by expecting more out of it than they should. These people will find a reason to be unhappy about anything. They could win the lottery and be pissed that they didn’t win it while also making out with Katy Perry at Disneyland.

Instead, here’s the perfect way to approach all your friendships: Sally is my friend. Sally is not perfect, but she is enjoyable. The end.

Another helpful tip is to wisely pick your battles instead of always picking the worthless ones. Quarrels begin over the most insignificant matters, and they typically end, for example, with you telling your boyfriend that he humps like a dying giraffe. Or you telling your brother that you’re gonna drown him in his own blood.

You can easily trade that life of drama for one of contentment. Conan O’Brien – a happy and successful man – once said that if you work hard and treat people well, good things will happen to you. It is a simple truth, even if you don’t really work that hard.

My wife and I have been married for almost seven years, and we have no formula for being happy. Someone asked her recently how we’ve managed it, and she just shrugged. That’s the same answer I would’ve given.

But now I think I have a better answer: You have to care, but only sometimes. If you care about every little thing, you’ll eventually want to blow yourself up. Realizing that you’re occasionally a moron helps you care less and admit you’re wrong, and that eliminates a lot of would-be conflicts.

Don’t make music a life-or-death matter like Radio Raheem did.

Take last Saturday, for example. We’re driving to Portland, and she’s fiddling with the iPod adapter and trying to eliminate all the static noise. She wasn’t doing it properly, though, so I turned off the music entirely.

She asks me what my problem is. I tell her she’s lame. She tells me I’m ridiculous, and then we sit in silence for five minutes.

Finally, I apologize for being rude and kindly ask her to stop ruining my life all the time. And like that, everything was OK again. One minute, I wanted to kick her out of the car at 75 mph, and the next she’s my sweet ol’ wifey. Piece of cake.

Life isn’t really easy, of course. Lots of bad things happen to good people for no reason, and jobs suck and money is tight and Arizona State still exists. Sadly, those things will never change.

But if you want a happier life, simply stop being a terrible human being. Don’t be the kind of person your girlfriend would like to feed to an alligator. And don’t be the kind of hate-filled son that your parents hope gets locked in a Mexican prison.

I saw the warning signs and chose to ignore them. Only now do I realize how much blood is on my hands.

Two years ago my wife was a (mostly) normal person, but I didn’t mind her abnormal traits. Those made her enjoyable, specifically her groundbreaking work as the choreographer who spawned the “What? Dance” — a shimmy that involves bizarre gyrations, shrugged shoulders and a puzzled look on your face similar to this.

Then we moved to Oregon, the Home of the Hippies. Guess which club my wife now belongs to?

She doesn’t have dreadlocks that are a nesting place for squirrels, nor does she smell like she just emerged from inside a homeless man’s corpse, but her actions over the past year lead me to believe that she might someday suggest we wash and reuse our toilet paper.

I desperately wanted to believe it was a fleeting phase, one that would pass as quickly as her foray into knitting (total time: 19 minutes). But there’s something in the water in Oregon that, at least partially, forces a person to wrap their arms around hippiedom.

My wife and me in 50 years, if this trend continues.

Let me make a quick clarification: I know the difference between a) the original hippies of the 1960s, who protested global injustice while dropping acid and having sex with everyone whose name starts with a letter, b) the modern hippie, who rails against the ills of plastic bags while eating an algae-and-tofu sandwich on gluten-free cardboard, and c) the pseudo-hippie, who is mentally unstable and randomly declares that nearly all mainstream food and manufactured goods are agents of death.

My wife is a rising star in the pseudo-hippie culture. The past few weeks have been especially alarming, and one incident in particular is causing me notable anguish.

Here’s a curious question: Am I able to amend my marriage license to include the clause, “Both parties must use real deodorant for human beings and not a stick of chalk that a group of chimpanzees stuck in a plastic container and miraculously sold to the local hippie store” … ? Is that legal? Because that’s the No. 1 thought in my brain today.

Last week, my wife read an article on the dangers of anti-perspirants because they contain aluminum that may lead to breast cancer. So the natural solution, she thought, was to find an aluminum-free deodorant. I understand her concerns, but deodorants don’t really deodorize anything, especially not the brands made by people who drink tree bark-and-dirt smoothies.

Everyone needs anti-perspirant. This is non-negotiable. If you merely wear deodorant, you’re trying to mask an unmaskable problem. It’s like chopping off all your fingers and then saying, “I’m going to wear this new wristwatch to divert your attention from the pool of blood gathering at my feet.”

I should state clearly that my wife doesn’t stink, at least not to non-husbands. She’s well aware of how ineffective her salt crystal deodorant is at close range. The sticker on the bottle says it’s “cruelty free,” but I assure you that I’m suffering.

Sadly, she’ll use this deodorant for the rest of her life.

This is just the latest of the many changes to our lives since moving to Oregon. We now make our own laundry detergent, a painstaking process that requires you to grate bars of soap into a fine powder that results in about 1 cup of detergent.

But, lucky us, we only need to use a tablespoon of soap for each load of wash. (I’m gonna go out on a limb and say your clothes are cleaner than mine.)

Mmmm, stomach bile. Bottoms up!

We have a juice maker the size of a small car, but it has only been used to make healthy (nasty) vegetable smoothies. These are all the rage in Oregon. My wife blends kale, chard, broccoli, apples, celery, spinach and water into the most horrid-looking concoction the world has ever seen.

Have you seen the fluid that comes out of a woman when she gives birth? That’s what our juicer produces, only the birth goo probably tastes better.

There’s also been a switch from normal milk to almond milk; the purchase of environmentally friendly light bulbs that require an act of God to emit any light; an effort to recycle everything that enters our home, including used Q-tips; and a desire to conserve water by her peeing outside on the grass instead of in the toilet. (OK, so I made up a couple of those things, but you get the point.)

You might say all this makes her a healthier person and one who has less of a harmful impact on the planet. I agree. It also makes her a weirdo. In fact, Merriam-Webster’s definition of hippie is exactly that:

hippie [hip·pie] n. a weirdo

I could have done more to prevent her brain from malfunctioning on such a severe level, but I was in a state of denial. And I blame Oregon. Surely you understand. I hope you do, because I’m probably gonna need to come to your house soon and borrow some toilet paper.

I only dislike two holidays, and one of them celebrates a 15th century explorer who enslaved and killed thousands of people. Somehow, Valentine’s Day is worse.

Here’s a day when the entire world takes a look in the mirror and says, “Y’know what? Somebody better love the sh*t out of me today.” Girls expect it from guys, and guys from girls, and girls from girls and so on. Everyone, even you, even if you aren’t wicked about it, is expecting a big show of affection that you don’t expect the other 364 days of the year.

(On top of that, Valentine’s Day is a big middle finger to everyone who’s single. It’s the world’s way of saying, “Hey, we’re having this enormous celebration, but you can’t come because no one loves you enough. Be more lovable and come next year.”)

“Love me or die.”

Allow me to create a metaphor for the typical Valentine’s Day lovewhore: My dog Yankee often sits on my lap and throws back her head against my body. She wants me to pet her, and so I do, happily. After a while, I stop.

Yankee throws back her head again, this time violently, and looks at me with a sense of annoyance, as if to say, “I know you loved me just a minute ago, but you’re not loving me enough. I need you to love me even better now, and you better have a Snausage for me, too.”

That’s exactly how humans think on Valentine’s Day: Love me more, and feed me well. The only difference for Yankee is that every second of her life is Valentine’s Day.

Four years ago, I made an undying vow to boycott Valentine’s Day. I don’t buy my wife flowers, cook her a special meal, write her poems, nothing. I’ve done each of those things on dozens of occasions in the past nine years.

Nowadays, I’m more likely to say “Please run me over with your car” than I am to utter the words “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

It’s her fault, really. I used to get into the whole Valentine’s Day routine because it was my time to shine. Our first Valentine’s Day was essentially Valentine’s Week. I made a few home-cooked meals, gave her little gifts, wrote sweet-yet-witty poems, took her to movies and all that. (Within six months of dating me, she was my fiancee. Homeboy got game, OK?)

She did sweet things for me, too, but after the first couple years, the reciprocity disappeared. And in 2008, after I planned a surprise date that involved a nice dinner out and a movie, she let it be known that Valentine’s Day was all about the guy doing something for the girl.

Given that and the petulant show-me-more-love nature of the festivities, I gave up on Valentine’s Day. I still love my wife just as much as normal, if not more, every Feb. 14, but I’m careful how I show it. I don’t want her to think I’m upping the ante because it’s some bogus holiday.

And for you guys and girls who dislike the holiday for the same reasons I do, let me give you a few pointers on how to still be loving while also staying true to your boycott:

1. Compliment your partner’s looks, but not too much. Example: “You look nice, but I bet you’ll look even better tomorrow.” Careful, though, because this could backfire if it sounds too much like, “Better luck next time, sport.”

And for dessert, a stick of Juicy Fruit.

2. Offer to cook dinner, but only give quasi-appealing options. Example: “What’ll it be, hun? I’ll whip you up a mean PB & J, or we can split a baked potato. Your call.”

3. If your partner cooks a meal, be only mildly excited. I actually said these words to my wife once as she cooked dinner: “It kind of smells like diarrhea in here.” To her credit, she didn’t set my face on fire while I slept. So take what I said but tone it down by 80 percent.

4. If gifts must be exchanged, be practical. Examples: New coat hangers or travel-size toothpaste or a gallon of windshield wiper fluid.

In the fifth grade I had a girlfriend named Alaina, who was very pretty and, being so attractive, deserved a good kissing. I was too scared, though, because she was a take-charge kind of girl who always got what she wanted, so much so that she made me get her pregnant.

Well, sort of.

Alaina called my house one night and said she had some big news. A friend was with her, and they were all worked up about something. I thought she was gonna dump me, but it was just the opposite: Alaina and I were about to start a family.

“I’m pregnant,” she said.

I didn’t know what to say, but it was probably something along the lines of, “Mmmphokducktales.”

I was scared. I thought I was in a lot of trouble because I was only 10 and had miraculously knocked up some chick I’d been dating for, I dunno, nine days. After a few minutes, I hung up the phone and walked to my room. I laid down on my bed, Ferris Bueller style, and — suddenly — pure excitement coursed through my veins.

“I’m gonna be a dad,” I said to myself with a huge grin.

I knew it didn’t make any sense to have impregnated someone without so much as kissing her. But I dismissed all rational thought that night: Nothing was going to separate me from my baby.

It was all a prank, of course, but the story is true. Last week’s story of how I found out my wife is pregnant was far less shocking, primarily because I actually had something to do with it. And the fact that it’s real makes it even more exciting and, mostly, incredibly weird.

The pregnancy was supposed to remain a secret for several weeks longer, but my wife treats a secret like it’s a severed head that just landed in her lap. (“I can’t hold this thing anymore!!!”)

The Hansen pee stick, valued at $850.

Within 10 minutes of receiving the result of our positive blood test, she posted a photo of a stick she peed on to her Facebook page, and then came a lot of congratulatory comments and phone calls and text messages. It was a great day.

But it was also bizarre. No one in the history of humanity has been more ill-prepared to be a dad than I am. I still feel like an 18-year-old who wants to spend his days drinking Capri Sun, eating frozen chimichangas and watching “Billy Madison.” How am I gonna raise a child to be of any value to society?

If you’ve ever seen me hold a baby, you’ll know that it’s a bad mix. My technique is this:

Firmly grasp the child with both hands

Lock your elbows so that no movement can occur

Stare directly at the child and never divert your eyes for any reason

At the first sign of the child’s discomfort, awkwardly pass the child to the nearest person

Exhale and wash hands thoroughly

Hopefully the sheer terror of holding a baby subsides soon because I don’t think one can be a worthwhile father without ever physically touching his kid. But since we’re on this whole holding-the-baby topic, I do have one requirement.

Someone better give my baby a bath before I hold it the first time in the delivery room. All newborns (and I mean ALL of them) look like slimy, heroin-addicted goblins right out of the womb. I’m happy and excited to be in the room for the whole process, but before you hand me the baby, you better at least toss it down a Slip ‘n’ Slide to clean it off.

I’ve seen pictures of the delivery room scene. I might wear a hazmat suit. Mama didn’t raise no fool.

Nonetheless, I’m excited. Freaked out, for sure, but primarily excited. I’ve already told you what the baby’s name will be if it’s a boy, which will make this whole process even more badass. And having a girl would be equally great, no matter how many people tell me that raising a teenage daughter is more grueling than riding in the Tour de France with one leg.

So we’ll see how it goes. Somewhere in the world, Alaina from the fifth grade is weeping at the thought of what might have been…

True story: Shortly before I got married in June 2005, I was covering a minor-league baseball game and struck up a conversation with a reporter from the rival newspaper. I told the guy, who had a wife and kid at home, that my wedding was around the corner.

He was eager to offer some advice.

“Don’t get married,” he said (and not in the wink-wink, just-kiddin’-ya-buddy kind of way). “Life is never as good as it used to be once you’re married. You’ve always got to worry about making other people happy. Seriously — stay single.”

That guy was a moron — I dismissed his words of wisdom and got married 10 days later — but as far as this blog is concerned, the moron doling out free, take-it-to-the-bank marital advice is me.

I’m a self-proclaimed moron because I don’t know what really makes a marriage go well. Maybe the secret is being a 5-foot-8, 135-pound version of Ryan Gosling, which I am. (Side note: If you put a gun to my head and asked me if I’d rather spend the rest of my life with my wife or Ryan Gosling, I’d hesitate for 10 loooooong seconds before wishing my wife all the best despite her newfound loneliness.)

So even though I’m not an expert, I’m fairly sure that my 6.4 successful years of marriage are due to the fact that I strictly adhere to the following three rules:

1. Never go grocery shopping with someone who would prefer to make you sit in the cart.

My old roommate, Dusty, and I had grocery shopping down to an art form. Our strategy was this: Go to Safeway, get a cart and fill it with the things we want. The success rate was 100 percent. We never created a list, never forgot anything and never had a fight because one of us wandered away for five minutes while the other one had a question. (That question: “Where have you been?!”)

I would rather swim in a river of lava than go to the store with my wife. If she had her way, this would be me.

Avoid the trouble and tell your partner that you’re happy to be a solo shopper. As for me, if there’s ever a joint trip to the store, I just tell my wife to crack the windows and leave me in the car.

2. Wave the white flag, and wave it proudly.

If you’re married to someone whose memory is as good as my wife’s, then you know the sad, lonely feeling of being legitimately wrong about everything. I can’t remember half of the things I say, whereas my wife has a Rain Man-like mental catalog of what each kid in her first-grade class brought for show-and-tell every week.

Trying to win an argument with a person like that is like trying to chug a beer bong with your eyeballs — you’ll only end up embarrassed and smelly.

Whenever my wife and I are about to get into a verbal back-and-forth about who said what or who didn’t say what, she gets this smirk on her face. It’s a sweet look that says, “How stupid do you want me to make you look right now?”

Once I see the smirk, I know I’m toast. I immediately stop talking, concede victory and carry on eating my Lucky Charms. Giving up never tasted so good.

Some things are inescapable as a married person, and the best example is your spouse’s entertainment preferences. My wife and I have very similar taste — with one notable exception.

In the past three years, I have been subjected to four movies in the “Twilight” series, 49 episodes of “True Blood,” 66 episodes of “The Vampire Diaries,” and 145 soul-crushing episodes of “Buffy the Vampire Slayer.” (I wish I were making this up.)

All told, that’s more than 11 days worth of vampire-related garbage. You might say, “Well, 11 days is nothing in the scope of a six-year marriage,” to which I’d respond, “Up yours, assface.”

In the end, the best thing for your marriage is to let your spouse indulge his or her silly entertainment desires. And maybe if you’re lucky, a real vampire will break into your house and kill you. Win-win.